


Is Not This Enough?

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [42]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Aging, Caves, Doubt, Elves like stars, Gen, Glittering Caves, M/M, Stars, children's enthusiasms change their parents, elves are weird, faith - Freeform, glow-worms, questioning accepted beliefs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6274081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caradhil visits an old friend in Aglarond and admires the caves.</p><p>In which dwarves age, an elf tries to deny it, and Caradhil speaks from the heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is Not This Enough?

It has been many years since I have set eyes on Caradhil – my friend Caradhil – first, and only, elf I have ever called friend.

Of course, he has not changed.

No, Droin, do not be overly dramatic. He has changed, of course he has changed – that which does not change does not grow, that which does not grow is not alive.

And Caradhil is very definitely alive.

He always was – those eyes, roving, watching, observing and drawing conclusions, those ears listening – those hands endlessly flexing, ready to draw weapon, to defend honour or to learn new skills – reading, writing, in those short weeks we had together and since then – since then it is best not to speculate what skills have been learnt, I think.

His hair is braided differently now, as I had heard – and there are indeed stripes within it – and the jewel that I sent him is worn proudly in his nose.

Still, he is less changed by time than I, or than my cousin, and yet again I wonder at Legolas-elf. Oh, I like him, and I have seen enough of my cousin and he to know that they are truly in love, that they could neither of them change nor turn away from their fate. Even so – I wonder at the joy with which he seems to embrace it, when I see one of his own kind so young, so joyous, so unchanged, unburdened by the years which have brought age to cousin Gimli and I.

But what do I know?

“Greetings master dwarf,” my friend begins, and makes that strange gesture, hand from heart to me that I remember from previous visits, “long it has been since I was able to come to you – the business of my prince’s realm has kept me from journeying until now my daughter is old enough that I may leave her in my stead. And now – now I have heard nothing but that the caves are as perfectly opened as they may ever be – though ever is, it seems to me, a long time, and that is a great promise. Still, be that as it may, I am here, and I – I have much I would say to you, much to recount, and much to ask. It has been too long we have had only letters.”

It has indeed.

And now – now I fear this will be our last meeting, for I am grown old.

I do not say this. For if I am old, cousin Gimli is old – and that reminder is not one I think Legolas-elf needs hear. I see him sometimes, when another dies, when he looks at my cousin and sees the changes in his hair, in his skin, and I see a dreadful grief and fear in his eyes.

But what can be done? 

Dwarves age, dwarves die – such is the way of the world.

“Ah, master elf,” I say instead, “for you – for you Caradhil, friend of my heart, for you there awaits the fabled hospitality of the dwarves. As you may recall, long though it is since last you visited, and those children you brought with you are now grown and no longer clinging.”

For an instant his face freezes, and I wonder what I have said wrong – they live still, surely – but it passes, and he agrees smoothly that he is indeed ready for food and drink, and tales of years passed.

 

 

 

 

The days of the visit pass, and Caradhil is all I remembered – all I hoped – he is delighted and interested in all I can tell him of how this colony is run, in the books, the records, the way we meet and discuss, the way accounts are kept – and he laughs when he sees Legolas-elf’s. I suppose I should not show him, but – well – it is difficult to say no to my friend.

“Oh, my sweet prince,” he says, and wrinkles his nose, “every penny spent on gifts for the lord Gimli – or on the little ones. Oh my sweet prince,” and he sighs.

“My cousin is every bit as besotted,” I say, lest he think his prince is – I do not know – made foolish by his adoration, “the jewels he has gifted Legolas-elf over the years – there cannot be a single royal in all the lands who is so loaded down with wealth.”

He nods, absently, and then meets my eye, sharp and dangerous once more, reminding me of his otherness as he says, 

“I know. Were he not – had I cause to think my prince not valued as he needs and deserves – this conversation would be very different indeed, master dwarf.”

But I do not ask more.

Instead I turn our thoughts, and find the courage to ask the question that has been nagging at me for some days now.

“Caradhil, friend of my heart, you have been generous with your praise and interest for so much – and I know, I know, you are an elf, an elf of the Woods – stones and caves do not interest you as they do me – but – almost you seem to be looking for something, seem to be disappointed in these Caves – I will not be offended – speak honestly. Has report exaggerated and left you disillusioned?”

As I speak, and I am glad it is now, and not a few moments earlier, my cousin and his elf wander in – always one to ignore a closed door, my cousin – talking, looking for something, I daresay – but they catch my words, and both stop, silent, and almost I think my cousin growls.

Legolas-elf looks from my cousin to Caradhil, and speaks quickly,

“It will be my fault – always I speak too much – and then demand your interest – I am sorry, Caradhil – too many years I have doubtless praised these Halls – and – and now – I meant no shame to your Ithilien – I have never learnt the gift of silence when I am with you – you know this,” and perhaps he would continue, but Caradhil shakes his head, and for a moment I think he wants to reach out.

Then he remembers.

“My sweet prince,” he says instead, and I wonder if I am the only one in the room to notice the tightening of my cousin’s jaw at the address, “my sweet Legolas, no. Droin, friend of my heart, I apologise. Indeed these caves are all they could be. They are beautiful, you have done much, delved wisely and created wonder. The jewels shine out from the walls – there is nothing that is not done well – the colours are true and beautiful – and – and if I find I remember other caves, and other wonders more to my taste – that is not to decry these.”

He stops, and bites his lip, and for a moment, just for a moment, I see that he is – in his way – as vulnerable as any other. 

One forgets elves have such a long past that they are forever held hostage by it, tied to memory and regret.

I am too slow to speak, in my surprise, and instead my cousin answers,

“Oh indeed, doubtless there are caves delved by elves that are far more beautiful, holes in the ground though they are, unfriendly and unwelcoming as they might be. Get you gone there, then, and waste your time here no more.”

All the years of resentment that has not been spoken is in his voice, and as Legolas-elf breaks in,

“Gimli-nin, no, that is not – not what Caradhil meant – I am sure – please, meleth – my lord husband – be not angered – please?”

his tone pleading, I see the same resentment rising in Caradhil also – and I understand it, I do, for who wants to hear their prince, their monarch hold himself so low?

Before I can find the words to resolve this, to make it pass away from us, take us back from the edge to which I have driven us – and now I know my mind slow with age, when I who was once a diplomat cannot do this smoothly and with style, Caradhil breathes and unclenches his fists,

“My lord Gimli – do not misunderstand me. The caves of which I speak – indeed they were not built by elves – long, long ago they were built by dwarves – and grateful indeed we of the Wood were, so my parents taught me when I was young, long ago,” he sighs again, “no, I apologise. I just – it is so many years since I saw – I suppose, when I had heard from you and my prince of all the marvels here I had hoped that perhaps – these caves would be as those I remember. They are not – and no less beautiful in their own way. It is simply,” he shrugs, “different.”

Now I am interested, and would hear more of this, but my cousin – my cousin is still angry.

“Fucks sake,” he says, “those caves you speak of – I for one have seen them – Droin has seen them – they are nothing special. They lack in skill, in design, they have no beauty, no strength in them,” and who knows what more he would go on to say, but,

“Gimli-nin, please!” Legolas-elf is upset, and I find I am also,

“Cousin,” I say, “you should not speak so ill of somewhere whose hospitality you and I have both enjoyed – of the homeland of these. Doubtless Khazad-dum was little to your Legolas’ taste, yet never has he spoken disparagingly of it in my hearing.”

There are not letters for the noise my cousin makes.

Caradhil – Caradhil laughs.

Laughs as elves laugh, clear as bells and joyous as a child.

“Oh my lord Gimli, Droin, friend of my heart, I am sorry. It is I that fail to make myself clear. You have not seen the caves of which I speak. None of you have,” he sighs and looks far into the distance – face impossible to read, then, “I am not speaking of the Halls – at least – not of the parts you have seen. Even you, my sweet prince – I think you do not know the full extent of the Palace. There is, it is well known, a River under the Halls. A River down which elves pole rafts and barrels float, a River – a River that flows towards a Mountain, towards a town of Men. But a River does not flow only one way. If you follow it back – under the Halls, if, for example, you are sent – as elves from time to time are sent – to ensure there is nothing lurking there, no unwanted guests – no Burglars, then, ah then you see it.”

He stops, and takes a drink, and I cannot but ask,

“What – what is it, what do you see?”

He stares into the cup, searching for words,

“Stars,” he says at last, and holds up a hand, “no, listen. Imagine yourself not a dwarf, who all his life has had the choice to go or to come, to walk under the air by day or night, to wander through the village you grew up in, or in and out of the Mountain, or these Caves. Imagine yourself not a Prince, not one who has travelled, not one who knows many lands and speaks with kings, with Noldor, with learned people of all races. Imagine yourself simply – a Silvan. A Silvan who was born in the Forest, who has never left the Forest, who has no hope of ever doing so – for those who left, those who marched away did not all return – and the grief of our land was great, so great it wounded us all, tore holes in the land – and not just the land – in our people, in our King,” he stops, seems to realise what he has said, and to whom, wrinkles his nose a little and continues, “a Silvan who has lived his life knowing he has never seen stars, will never see stars – the stars of Elbereth, the stars that are so blessed, so full of hope and promise – never to see them but through the twining branches, imprisoned, their light restricted, only ever half-seen. And you understand why, you do not question your fate, but sometimes – sometimes you wonder, you cannot help but wonder – what it would be to be outside.”

He shrugs, and looks up,

“This was long ago, when you were but the merest elfling, my prince – before ever you sat a horse, before the trade on the River began, before there was hope for most of us – those who were not skilled and of high birth, in need of the honour found in riding out on errantry – we had no thought ever to leave. Our King kept us safe within the Wood, and we had no desire to leave, not really. Only sometimes – sometimes you would see the stars, glimmering, and – and you would wonder.

“So. Imagine yourself that Silvan, if you can. Then, ah then, you, and two others are told – you are to travel upstream, in a boat, for there is no path to walk, and the river too fast and deep to swim, even for elves – you are to travel there, and see that there is nothing lurking. It is feared there may be Spiders, or some other dark creature – for of recent years the River has dropped, not much, but a little, and so there might now be a way in for such things.

“You are afraid – all of you are afraid – not just of the creatures, not just of the dark, for we are not dwarves, we do not love dark places, yet who knows if we will have light enough – the torches we take seem few, their light feeble – but you are afraid also that the River may leap down, down below the level of the earth – you do not know, but you are afraid, as you have seen it do elsewhere, and that you may be carried down also. Sense tells you this cannot happen, you are travelling upstream, yet – you are afraid.

“Still, it is not for elves to question the orders of their King. You go, three to a boat – one to row, one to hold the torch and steer, and one to be ready with bow and dagger – and in the darkness your song is all but quenched.

“Imagine then, that the torch flickers and falls dark, whether by chance or the design of one who cannot be named who can be sure, and you – you are first in the boat, seated at the front, your bow ready in your hand, your dagger loose in your belt. The rower – names matter not, he is dead this long age – cannot see ahead as you can – but the helm, the helm is watching also.

“Watching as the stars come out. Above your heads, the stars come out, stars as you have never seen them, never dreamt to see them, always longed to see them yet knew not that for which you longed. Stars bright, brighter than any candle, than any fire, cold and clear, a memory of the purest light, the purest song there has ever been or can be, will be. Silently, silently you drift – seem to drift, in reality I am aware that our rower was working hard – under these stars, and all that has been ill in your life – all of it matters naught. Grief and sorrow are forgot, for there are stars; hurt and pain, loneliness, fear and doubt – none of it matters – all is cleaned and healed by their light and for a while, for a while you know what faith in the Valar means, you understand the promises they made, the trust elves should have.

“And then, then the stars fade, and the moment passes, and you are just an elf, in a boat, with others, and the ferns brush against you as the boat passes out through a cave-entrance into the gloom of the Forest in which you have lived all your life. A gloom that will never again be enough, a night of endless twilight which will forever now be meaningless shadows to you.”

He stops, and I – I have never heard him speak like this. I do not know what to say – by the look on his face, my cousin is as shocked as I, and even Legolas-elf is silent.

There is a long moment, and then Caradhil seems almost to pull himself together, and laughs. But it is brittle now, and there is a pain under it.

“We walked back – swam and climbed – Meieriel and I, for she was my helm, she also had felt as I felt, wondered as I wondered. They were – tiny points of light, insects. Insects. We watched, and saw – they used the light to attract prey. 

“That was all the light was. A false light, a lure, a bait.”

He is silent, and then,

“But still – still it was the most wondrous thing that I ever saw. Even after all these years of Ithilien, even after learning to know the stars, and long it is since first I walked under true stars, when I left the Forest to pole rafts downriver. Yet still, somehow, that first time – those moments of silence, of awe, drifting under supposed stars – somehow, I have never felt more love and trust for the Valar than then, never more wonder at the world and all its beauty. And so – forgive me, Droin friend of my heart, forgive me my lord Gimli – but when I heard nothing but the tale of wonders of these caves – I hoped – that perhaps, perhaps there might be something similar here, some creature to make light in dark places, some creature that could remind me now, after all the centuries, of the peace and trust I felt that day. But there is nothing like that here. Just rock, and jewels, and a busy city – and I am sorry, but I feel – grieved.”

He shrugs again, and I – I have not the words to speak of the pain I suddenly perceive, though I do not understand it and cannot find the words to ask.

It is Legolas-elf who speaks,

“In all the years, I had never thought – once again I fail you Caradhil – you – do you – you miss the Forest so much? I – I will not say Ithilien needs you not – or that I need you not – you know they would be lies – but – if you – I would not keep you against your will, surely you know this?”

Caradhil tries to smile, and for an instant seems to reach out, but then he changes the gesture, rubs his nose again, and finds the words he needs.

“It is not that. For a long time – I hated that I had seen it. Those stars – those false stars, lures, those insects – it seemed to me that if that was the promise of the Valar, if that was all it was worth – then not only that but what else – what other tales had been lies – had all I knew, all I believed been built on lies? And I – I lost my trust,” his voice is low, and I think I am not the only one to feel uneasy at such words; he must sense it for he looks at the floor as he speaks, but then – then he raises his head, and he smiles, “now though – now, yes, I regret not going back. Now – now after all the years of my son’s talk and love of every animal that walks or crawls or flies or swims – now, I find I care not that those stars were not stars. That the love and trust I felt was not as I was always promised. What matters it where the light comes from? What matters it that they were not true stars? The wonder of those – fungus gnat larvae – would be enough and more than enough for my Taithel – and he is right. What matters it even whether the stars themselves were placed by Elbereth? – They are beauty enough without a tale to explain them.”

Dwarves do not think of Elbereth much, but to hear an elf say that – truly, Caradhil, my friend Caradhil, friend of my heart – he is a most – curious elf.

“I regret not going back, my sweet prince, because I regret not showing that wonder of wonders to my son before he left on his wanderings. But one day, one day he will return to me – and then perhaps I will make good my failure. I am an elf – one thing I have in plenty. Time.”

He stretches, shakes out his hair, as though he has no knowledge of what he has said, how he has twisted the knife in my cousin’s heart, reminding him once again that we are not elves, not immortal, that we have not time uncounted. Caradhil turns once more to the documents we were examining earlier, and begins a tale of his own land, and I try my best to listen, to respond as the door closes behind my cousin and his elf.

There is not even a flicker on the face of the friend of my heart to show he knows they leave, or that he has wounded my cousin this night, or to acknowledge the shock of his words concerning the truth of the Valar.

Much later, as I bid him good night – for I am tired, I must sleep, whatever he intends to do – he offers the closest he will come to an apology.

“Days with you are too short, Droin, my friend,” he says, sighing, and I see that he too is tired, if in a different way, “would that dwarves had more years to spend.”

I shake my head,

“No, Caradhil,” I say, “for me that would be no blessing. You forget – my love died long ago, and all this work is but to occupy me while I await my time to rejoin her,” but I know he does not understand, does not comprehend what love means.

What it is to be an elf, I think once more, to live so long, and so alone.

 

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Douglas Adams comment in Last Chance to See......
> 
> Isn't it enough to see that the garden is beautiful without having to believe there are fairies at the bottom of it too?


End file.
